1903-12-26

It is not creditable to newspaper editors and contributors to ridicule mothers engaged in reform work because, perchance, they may have wayward husbands or children. The four bandits arrested near Chicago a few weeks ago for crimes committed in that city and elsewhere have furnished an opportunity to some heartless writers to reprove the mother of one of the boys for neglecting his moral training while she was working with other women to lessen the evils of intemperance and providing places of retreat for boys and girls who had no homes, or whose homes were worse than none. When the bandits were arrested the first request they asked of the officers of the law was to send for their mothers. This was too much for the caustic writers of the press. The idea that a criminal should have a mother started their fanciful brains in a train of thought that was very funny. If these brigands had mothers, no doubt reasoned the writers, why should they have committed murder and burglary and highway robbery? Why were they not at Sunday school instead of consorting together in some out of the way place reading blood and thunder novels and planning crimes? The story as published was that a mother of one of the criminals was a very earnest Christian woman who had tried to raise her children in the paths of virtue. Her boy, so far as history is given, was industrious and had a good character among his acquaintances. A year or more before his arrest, he fell in with a bad gang and left his home, as he represented, to seek work elsewhere. The first intimation his mother had that her boy was a criminal was when the news came of his arrest. For years she had been associated with other good mothers trying to save the young, not knowing that her own boy was taking the downward course.

          The wits who write for newspapers take a deal of pleasure in holding up to ridicule the mother-in-law, the women of education and reading who have advanced ideas as to the duties and responsibilities of their sex in the affairs of the world, and of the women connected with temperance work. Take the everyday influence of woman out of life and every mother’s son would be rushing to the devil by lightning express. Did these funny fellows never have a mother or sister or a wife that they can dig up so much humor out of what they denominate the foibles and follies of women? It is a good woman’s fault that she is afflicted with a worthless husband, or a willful son or daughter? No wonder that she is interested in every movement that will tend to close up the drinking saloons, the gambling houses and the brothels that are an ever-present snare to their loved ones. Alone she cannot accomplish much, but by association with other good women, all working together towards the desired end, she has at best the hope that although the road to reform and purity may be a long one, strewn with its thousands of victims, there may yet be light at last and the glad day dawn when these temptations will be removed out of the way of the husbands and sons of future mothers. Go to, you newspaper wits and expend your humor on something else besides mothers and wives and sisters.

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          God bless the good women of Hamilton for their efforts to make the world better. It would be a sorry old place were the women to be as careless and neglectful of the suffering of humanity as are the men. But we are not going to berate the men, for the old boys are generally willing to furnish the funds and leave the matter of distribution to their wives and daughters. In reading the list of benevolent organizations in the city directory you will find only the names of a few of them, for the greater part of the work is carried on without any fuss and feathers by women who give freely of their time and money to care for the unfortunate. Homes for the boys and girls and for aged women are all the outcome of the work of women who stand between the unfortunate and the outside world; and even Father Geoghegan’s infirmary is backed by the women, although there be a few men for ornament in the directory. If Ald. Domville could only get the council to appoint a committee of women to work with him in his efforts to build a hospital for incurables, it would not be long before the material would be on the ground and the cheery shouts of bricklayers for “mort” and the sound of the carpenter’s hammer heard down on the bay front, and by the return of summer, the hospital would be completed and the incurables be praying for blessings on the good old alderman and the women who helped him. Because the women are not in it is the reason Ald. Domville has to struggle and fight single-handed and alone. Half a dozen good women would make short work in raising the balance of the funds necessary to erect the hospital.

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          So it is to the churches. Take the women out and the minsters would preach to empty pews and the prayer meetings would be relegated to innocuous desuetude. Women are not the patrons of saloons, gambling dens, pool rooms and the bucket shops, nor do they fool away their hard-earned money on the ponies. Here and there, probably one in a thousand, may get down from the high estate of womanhood and be guilty of such things, but they are few; and we are proud of our Canadian mothers, wives and sisters because of their lives and deeds of kindness. The newspaper wits who wrote about the mothers of the Chicago bandits, and spoke slightingly of the murderers because they asked for their mothers when they were in the hands of the law, should remember that no matter how great the crime, the criminals were their sons. The loving heart of the mother more tenderly yearns over the black sheep in the flock, and she would gladly give her life to save the erring one.

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In these days of push and activity, there is a hustle to get rich even with people who know how to toil and who are willing to work sixteen and eighteen hours out of the twenty-four, if by that means they can reach the desired end. Half a century ago, a man was considered to be on Easy street if he had but a thousand a year, and it is a question if he did not enjoy the comforts of life better than men do now who can add a few ciphers to the $1,000. It is human to be progressive, and if by the honest means one can increase his capital and his income, he is to be commended for making the effort. There is no necessity why one should eat potatoes and herrings for breakfast when by a little effort he can change the menu to quail on toast. It is astonishing how quickly the appetite changes and demands rarer dishes as the income increases. Of course, there is the danger of dyspepsia, when you may have to diet, as does John D. Rockefeller, on crackers and milk and on Force. If John had not fattened his bank account on coal oil, he might today be able to enjoy a slice of the cold turkey that was left over from yesterday’s Christmas dinner. But the dollars are mighty and will prevail, and this leads up to another side of the question.

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The boys from the farms are students of current history, and when they read of the fortunes to be made in the city, like old Uncle Neal, they “throw down the shovel and the hoe,” and strike out for the newer and richer pastures. The boys tires of the farm because in the country everything is calm and peaceful, and there is nothing to stir up his blood or call forth his mental energies. It is the same round of work day after day, and after the chores are done, when the sun goes down, he feels too tired to think. This, however, is a forced condition to farm life, and things have changed wonderfully in later years. There is no earthly reason why a farmer should work himself and his family of boys and girls and the hired hands from sunup to sundown. Life is too short to spend it with one’s nose to grindstone during the waking hours. It is this condition that drives the boy from the country to the city. In the city he has regular hours to begin and end work, and when the evening comes, there are social and intellectual diversions which he can enjoy. He is not subject to any greater temptations in the city than in the country, for if his mind runs to poker and high balls and beer seems he can find opportunity even though he were surrounded by the malarial waters of the Dundas marsh.

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Many who own broad acres toil that they leave as a heritage to their sons the farms they have changed from forests into rich and productive soil. Their aim being accomplished, they are beginning to give some thought to the future of the boys and girls. They see the spirit of unrest and the desire of the young to change from the farm to the counting room or the workshop, and when they candidly look at the matter, they can hardly blame the young people. Out in Illinois, the majority of the boys have been leaving the farm and crowding into the cities. One large land owner who had been giving serious thought to the future has in a measure solved the problem. In each school district the teacher has been appointed as a sort of general head to plan for the new order of things. Social meetings are held in the farm houses and in the school houses, to which all of the young people are invited. Interesting programs are prepared, reading circles are formed, and all who have talent in music and in elocution, or in any line, are pressed into service. A new life has opened to the young people and they are beginning to feel that farm life is not such a lonely existence after all. The young men are organizing string and brass bands and glee clubs, and the wonder is why they did not think of this long ago. The postal service sends out its carriers on the rural routes and every farm house gets its morning daily paper from the larger cities and letters and packages. In sections where radial electric roads run, the farmer and his family can get into town to church and concerts and the theatre and get back home before midnight, just as though they had only to go a block or two.

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          This is a pointer for our Canadian farmers. They are growling because the boys leave home and move into the cities, and are clamorous for the government to bring out farm hands from the old country to till the soil. Better get the government to open out the rural mail routes to bring the farm and the city into closer touch. Better encourage radial electric roads in every township so that the boys and girls can get to town without wading through mud in summer and snow drifts in winter. These are advantages that will increase the value of farms and make the young people more contented. There is no life so independent as that of a farmer, and with the improvements  in farm machinery and implements, it is no longer the slavish life that it was even a quarter of a century ago.

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          Captain Masson, one of the old-time lake captains who lived in Hamilton, was the first to establish regular steamboat connections between this city and the Niagara river. Prior to 1848-9, passengers from Hamilton and this section of country who wanted to get into the United States at the Niagara river were compelled to make the journey by stage coach; and as the roads were pretty bad, especially in muddy seasons, it was quite a hardship to businessmen and travelers. An American company placed the steamer Rochester on the route from Hamilton to Lewiston, calling at Port Dalhousie and Niagara. The Rochester was an old boat even then, and it took from four to five hours to make the trip one way, leaving Hamilton at seven o’clock in the morning and getting back home from the return trip about seven in the evening. Captain Masson was one of the most careful commanders, and even though the boat was not considered safe, especially in stormy weather, the travelling public had so much confidence in the genial captain that it never had any doubt about making the trip. There was an old law on the statute books regulating ports, and some jealous person called the attention of the attorney-general to the law. As the Rochester was a foreign-owned vessel, the strict application of this law would have compelled her withdrawal from the route, but Hamilton business men took the matter before the law officers of the crown and had it modified so as to permit the running of the boat. As there was no British or Canadian steamer willing to take the route, it would have been of great hardship to the business men of Hamilton, as it was the only means, except by land, to get merchandise from the American borders. A few years ago, the old Rochester boat was doing business as a pleasure boat sailing around points at Charlotte, near the city of Rochester, N.Y., and it looked as youthful then as it did more than a half century ago, when Captain Masson trod its decks. When the new steamers, the Canada and the America, were put on the route from Hamilton, Captain Masson was appointed to the command of one of the vessels and Captain Willoughby the other. The boats were too large and expensive for the lake trade, and when the civil war began in the United States in 1861, the owners were only too glad to sell them to the government to be used as transports in American waters. Captain Masson went with his boat and entered the naval service, continuing in it until the close of the war, after which he was appointed to a prominent place in the lighthouse service on the southern sea coast, in which he continued until his death, which occurred only a few years ago. Captain Masson was married to a daughter of John Winer, the wholesale druggist, who started the business in Hamilton that now bears his name.

1907-05-04

Seventy- four years ago William Alford was born in a house that stood on the corner of Rebecca and Hughson streets, and in the house on the opposite corner, a few years later, was born the girl who was destined to be his wife and the partner of his joys and sorrows. As neighborhood children, they scrapped to their hearts’ content, so that when they joined hands in wedlock more than half a century ago, they were ready to settle down into amicable relations with each other and live in perfect Happiness and rear their children to be a comfort to them. The partnership continued for over fifty years, and then the good wife and mother crossed the river of death to join the children who had gone before, and to await the coming of the husband of her youth and maturer years when he would enter the terminal station at the end of life’s journey. The writer and Bill Alford were boys together in the long ago when almost every boy and girl in Hamilton knew each other. Bill used to run with the old fire department. He was a jolly fellow when young, and his more than three score years have not subdued his nature. He started life as an employee of the Great Western railway when it was first opened from the Niagara to the Detroit river, and he punched tickets and conducted trains till a few weeks ago, when he began to think that for the few remaining years he had to tarry here he might as well take life leisurely. He was a prudent man all these years, and he wisely laid by each pay day a part of his earnings, so that when old age or sickness or accident might come upon him, he would not have to worry about how to make ends meet. There are not many seventy-four year old native Hamiltonians living now, nor are there many in active life who began with William Alford when the Great Western road first opened. If we mistake not, his father, Elisur Alford, was also a native of Hamilton. He was one of the prominent business men in the early days of Hamilton, and owned the property on King street on which stands a part of the Thomas C. Watkins business house. He died in 1835, at the age of twenty-eight years, and his grave is one of the two now marked by stone monuments in the old grave yard of the First Methodist church. The vandals who desecrated the graves of the pioneers of Methodism in Hamilton and used their tombstones for a footpath spared the two monuments under the locust trees, and left undisturbed the decayed bones of those who in the long ago worshipped in the old church that was organized in a log cabin by Class Leader Springer.

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          Forty years ago, when this Old Muser was on his way back to visit Hamilton, the home of our boyhood, we met William Alford, who was then a train officer on the Grand Trunk road; and our next meeting was a few days ago when he was in Hamilton. His heart is as warm as ever, and his memory is bright in the history of his native town. He has noted all the changes that have taken place in Hamilton from the time when it was but little more than a straggling village, and he is as loyal to the old town as in the days of his boyhood. He has kept in touch with its progress by his daily reading of the Spectator, for he is one among its ancient subscribers. Bill is a Tory and all that the name expresses. Indeed, so grounded in the faith is he that he would not read a Bible that he had reason to believe was printed in a Grit printing office. As the old Methodist preachers would exclaim : “And of such is the Kingdom of Heaven!” He is now on the retired list in Brantford, which town has been his home for the last thirty-five years. Only two of his children are living, one son in Kansas City, Mo., and a daughter who keeps house for him. Here in Hamilton, he has a daughter-in-law, the widow of one of his sons, and the veteran conductor comes down occasionally to enjoy a day with his grandchildren. His cheerful disposition makes brightness and sunshine wherever he is. May he enjoy health while he lives, and when making his last run, may he have a through ticket to the home above, where dwells his wife and children.

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          In the Hamilton Bee, published in 1845, there is an extract from a quaint sermon delivered by an Anglican minister, a graduate from Oxford University. They had a fashion sixty and seventy years ago of occasionally preaching some very plain sermons, especially on the questions of gambling and drinking. A round of such discourses from the pulpits in this godly city might stir up as much discussion as did the descriptive sermon, To Hell and Back – which edified our churchgoers a few Sundays ago. “I am not one of your fashionable, fine-spoken, mealy-mouthed preachers,” said the eccentric Anglican minister: “I tell you the plain truth. What are your pastimes? Cards and dice (this was in the days before bridge, whist was the fashionable game, fiddling and dancing, guzzling and gluttony! Can you be saved by cards and dice? No! Will the 4 knaves give you a passport to heaven? No! Can you fiddle yourselves to damnation among the goats? You may guzzle wine here, but you will want a drop of water to cool your parched tongues hereafter. Will the prophets and martyrs rant and swear, and shuffle and cut with you? No! They are no shufflers. You will be cut in a way that you little expect. Lucifer will come with his reapers and sickles and forks, you will be cut down and bound, and carted and pitched into hell. I will not oil my lips with lies to please you; I will tell you the plain truth. Profane wretches! I have seen and heard you wrangle and brawl and tell another, “I’ll see you d----d first!” But I tell you the day will come when you will pray to Beelzebub to escape his clutches. And what do you think will be his answer? “I’ll see you dead first!”

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          In the good old days away back in the first half of the last century, when Hamilton’s civic affairs were managed by a board of police, there were no such monkey shines as we had an exhibition of in the council chamber the other night. When members disagreed on matters of legislation, they did not pass the lie or swear at each other; they simply settled their disputes in the fashion taught by John Martin in his boxing school across the street from the old town hall. Tom Gillespy represented the second ward in the board of police and was somewhat a noted character in those early days. He was a man of some wealth, and was gifted with a knowledge of how to govern a people by legislative means. But better than all, he had studied the science of old John Martin and had the Marquis of Queensbury rules at the tips of his fingers; in fact, he had all of the physical science culture that could knock out an adversary in a square stand up battle, and he was also a handy man with his fists in a general rough-and-tumble encounter. One night the board of police was in session, and there being important matters brought up for consideration, a number of the leading ward heelers were present to look after their special interests. Jimmy Mullin, a tavern keeper, was a mover in public affairs in those days, and wherever he was, he always made himself prominent. Tom Gillesby was making a speech before the board when Jimmy got inquisitive and began asking questions. Tom’s reply did not suit Jimmy. Things began to warm up, till finally Tom concluded that eloquence was lost on Jimmy, so he let fly his left digit and jarred Jimmy’s ivories. Jimmy was one of Corktown’s bravest and best, and for a time, the two mixed up to the delight of those present. Business was suspended by the board, and as boxing was an art in those days in which the average man was interested, the other members of the board would not permit any interference with the exhibition. Barney Mullin, a son of Jimmy’s, got into an argument with George Duffield, an old whaler, who boasted that he once rode a hundred miles on the humpback of a whale. Barney was too much for old George, and the bystanders interfered. While this second battle was in progress, Tom Gillesby and Jimmy Mullin were wearing each other out, till finally Tommy hit Jimmy below the belt and a foul was called. That way of settling disputes in the council chamber might have been alright sixty or seventy years ago, but Hamilton has progressed in the refinements of life, and its representatives settle their little misunderstandings with the tongue instead of muscle.

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          Sixty-two years ago, the village of Waterdown aspired to metropolitan fame in being the place of publication of a newspaper, entitled Myself.  That any copy of it has been preserved is doubtful, yet it would be interesting now to know what the character of Myself was. Evidently, it was not intended that it should be printed at regular intervals, for here is the edition’s salutatory: “I have been determined to speak this long time, and now all I wish is that you will hear what I have to say. I will not say much, but will tell you a little of all that’s going on; and maybe, I won’t say what will please everybody; but one thing is certain, I shall try to please Myself, who is the proprietor and editor of this paper. I will issue as often as convenient; be pointed by Myself whose office is at home, where you will always here from me when you are not at your home minding your own business. I shall devote Myself to all kinds of information good for the people. I will print job work, and advertise cheap.” Here is a copy of an advertisement, which must not be taken as evidence that Waterdown had no schoolmasters seventy years ago : I, druggist of this town, dealeth in mole candals, shugar plums, comes, mous traps, hard sider, and sick matters. Teeth extracted, blud drawn, pills mixtures made, hebsom salts and corns cut, and all other things on reasonable terms. N. B. – And my missus goes out as midwife in the cheapest way possible.” A copy of Myself would be a rare literary treasure in these days.

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          The journeymen stone cutters of Hamilton, early in the month of April, 1845, organized a society for benevolent purposes as well as for the establishing of a regular scale of wages. This was probably the first labor union organized in Hamilton; so the stone cutters can date back their society sixty-two years. Wages at that time were $1.50 a day, free of all expenses for sharpening tools. There was quite a demand for stone cutters, as many of the best buildings were erected from the mountain stone.

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          Night is beautiful in itself, but still more beautiful in its associations: it is not linked, as day is, with our cares and our toils, the business and the littleness of life. The sunshine brings with it action. We rise in the morning and our task is before us, but night comes and with it rest. After a day spent in the battle of life, a struggle during the long hours from early morning till the evening sun goes down: how restful the thought that sustains the toiler that home and wife and children await him to brighten the few hours when the cares of business may be laid aside. Work makes the man, though at times the toiler fancies he could be happier were it a little less strenuous. If we have sleep, and ask not of our dreams forgetfulness, our waking is in solitude, and our employment is thought. Imagination has thrown her glory round the midnight – the orbs of heaven, the shadows are but poetic dreams. Even in the center of our dear old city – the pride of every true Hamilton – where the moonlight falls upon pavement and roof, the heart is softened and the mind elevated amid the loneliness of the night’s deepest and stillest hours. Such dreams are for the young; those who knew Hamilton in the long ago, when the summer nights were spent on the bay, drifting with the wind that gently flapped the sails of the small craft in which a dozen or more with voice and guitar filled the air with melody and sang the songs that evoked tears and laughter. Drifting with the tide or with the wind the memories of the long ago come back to the old-timer, and he hums, with quavering voice, Would I Were a Boy Again.

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          Sixty-five years ago, there was a frame Methodist chapel on John street, the membership of which had withdrawn from the old church on the corner of King and Wellington streets. This was the first Methodist church, built in the business center of the town and now known as the Wesley church. The Bickles, the Watkins brothers, Edward Jackson, Dennis Moore and other families prominent in Methodism in those days were among the members that worshipped in the frame church on John street. One Sunday evening, in April, 1845, a sailor from the lake district was wandering up town and hearing the hearty singing and praying in the chapel as he was passing by, he concluded to enter and enjoy: but Jack had taken too much liquor aboard and it had made him at enmity with the world, and as a result, he butted in at the wrong time, which created a scene. Brothers John Bickle and Charles Magill, two muscular young Christians who would tolerate the profaning of the sacred temple, tackled the sailor and with persuasive eloquence besought him to depart in peace and their blessing would go with him. Jack had just enough liquor stowed away to make him feel ugly, and he was going to remain right there till Gabriel blew his trumpet. Sam Ryckman, the town constable, was summoned, and with the aid of the Brothers Bickle and Magill, poor Jack was bounced out and spent the Sunday night in the cold, damp cells under the engine house. The next morning Captain Armstrong, an old salt himself, lectured the sailor on the sin of drunkenness, especially on Sunday, and fined him $2 for the misdemeanor. As the vessel in which Jack shipped was about to leave port that Monday afternoon, the mate had to pay Jack’s fine and get him released.

1907-08-24

The average boy of the present day has better opportunities to make his way in the world than us old stagers had when we were boys; but it is questionable if he really appreciates the sacrifices made by parents or the advantages provided for him by the public schools. The boy of half a century ago had to begin to hustle not only for himself but that he might be a help in supplying the family larder, that the younger ones could have a full meal three times a day, and then a piece sandwiched in between the meals. There were no collegiate  back then for the average boy, for by the time he got through with the multiplication table and had acquired a smattering of grammar, geography and was able to spell and read without stumbling over the big words, there was a place waiting for him in some workshop, or he became his father’s helper at his trade, but, mind you, it must not be inferred that the old-time boy grew up a dullard and without education, for he could trip up the most expert  in the old-time spelling school in spelling difficult words, and the books he read were of a substantial and instructive character. The boys nowadays go to school till they are almost old enough to get married, and they know but little of what sacrifices are made to polish them up in foreign tongues, in the higher mathematics, in the sciences, and all the other accomplishments of a classical education. It is a good thing for the boys to get an education in the higher studies, but unfortunately too many of them are unfitted for the battle of life, for by the time they leave school, they think they are old enough to learn a trade, and they drift off into callings which are never very remunerative.

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          But there are others, and in this class can be found the boy who attends school, and after the recitations are over for the day is ready to pick up any odd job that will help clothe him while his parents are working and economizing to keep him in school. The carrier boys of the daily papers in this and other cities are in this class, and generally you will find them wide awake and ambitious to do something for themselves. We are not now referring to the newsboys who sell the dailies in the streets – they are in a different class. Of the hundred or more boys in Hamilton who carry the dailies to the homes of regular subscibers, a large majority are scholars in the public schools. When possible they get out a little earlier than the regular hour of dismissal so that they can get their papers at the office and start on their rounds of delivery. The Daily Spectator has some sixty of these boys, and they are as bright a lot as belong in the city. Each has a list of papers that takes him a little more than an hour each day to deliver, and for this work he averages about $1.50 per week. For six or eight hours a week, this is not bad pay for a boy, and at Christmas they gather in a number of dollars as Christmas gifts from the subscribers. This will at least buy a boy his clothes and shoes, which is no small amount of saving to the parents who are trying to give them an education. When a boy passes from the public schools to the collegiate, there is added expense for books and tuition which many times make the cost more than the parents are able to bear.

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          Three or four weeks ago, W. J. Southam, business manager of the Spectator, invited the carrier boys of the Spectator down to his summer cottage at the beach to be his guests at a picnic. It is needless to say that on the appointed afternoon every boy had his round delivered promptly on time so that he was ready to take the car on the radial. And such a time as those boys had! Everything in the way of amusement was provided for them, and when suppertime arrived, such a feast was spread by the ladies of the household as to make the average boy wish he had half a dozen stomachs so that he could fill them all with dainties. Carrier boys now live in a different atmosphere to what the old-time carries boys of the Spectator enjoyed. Away back in the early ‘50s the boys worked in the office during the day, and sometimes late in the night setting the type for the daily, or at some of the many things in the printing office, and then they had to be out by daylight in the morning to carry the paper so as the subscribers could have it at the breakfast table. If a boy got $1.50 a week for ten or twelve hours’ work in the day he was fortunate. There were no picnic suppers given by the proprietors of the paper at the beach or anywhere else. Well, those carrier boys had a grand time at the beach, and they are still talking about it. A thing has got to have extraordinary merit for a boy to give it even a passing thought an hour after he has participated in it. Then, George R. Allan, the superintendent of the paper, was entrusted with the important task of making a speech to the boys. George used to carry papers when he was a printer’s devil in the Spectator office in the early ‘70s, and he could talk to the boys understandingly. And, then, George is a school trustee, therefore his words along educational lines were supposed to be loaded with wisdom. George told the boys of a plan that William J. Southam had matured for their benefit that would act as a stimulus in making them faithful in their work as carrier boys and also assist them in their desire to take the full collegiate or commercial course. The plan is this : Every carrier boy who passes the entrance examination into the collegiate or commercial classes wi8ll have his tuition and books paid for by the Spectator company so long as he remains a carrier boy of the Spectator. Add to this the wages the boy receives for doing less than two hours’ work each afternoon, and if he does not get an education, it is his own fault. It is splendid work that Mr. Southam purposes, and it is creditable to his head and his heart. The boys will appreciate the generous offer and take advantage of it. The money they earn for carrying the paper will keep them in shoes and clothes, and when they get through school, they will be fitted to begin the battle of life either by learning a trade or along some line that will be congenial and profitable.

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          Talking about newsboys calls to mind the old-time carriers of the country newspapers. In the larger town, the boys not only delivered the weekly or semi-weekly paper within the corporate limits, but had to go out into the more thickly settled country to deliver the paper to subscribers. A. T. Freed tells of his experience in the Dundas Warder office in the days when Robert Spence was the owner of that paper. On publication day, after delivering his route within the village, he was sent out into the country on horseback to deliver the paper at the farm houses; and generally it was late in the evening when he got back to Dundas, tired and worn after a hard day’s ride. Many of the carrier boys in Hamilton now ride a wheel when delivering their routes, and it is no trick at all to distribute from 150 to 200 papers within an hour after the papers are turned off from the press. The subscribers get the news red hot now which in the old days it was old stuff at best, generally foreign news two or three weeks old before it got into the hands of the editor. The old-time carrier boys have grown grey with their threescore and ten years, and when they remember the trials and tribulations they passed through in order to learn the printer’s trade, they feel that if some Southam had arisen in their day to pay tuition and books so that they could have spent a year or two more in school, how much easier would their task have been.

1903-03-07

The files of the old Spectator are full of history of doings in this city and in Canada forty-six years ago. The morning express on the Great Western road ran off the track near the Falls, and when the cause was investigated, it was found that a switch had been tampered with, and as the trackmen were out on strike, the accident was easily accounted for. The switch was alright until a few minutes before the train was to pull out.

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          A man was arrested in Cleveland, Ohio, supposed to be Townsend, the murderer of Mr. Nelles. The Canadian authorities had offered a reward of $7,000 for the capture of the celebrated outlaw, of whom an account was given in the Spectator a few weeks ago. It was doubtful that the man under arrest was Townsend, as the officers from Hamilton could not identify him. The Cleveland papers insinuated that the Canadian authorities were not anxious to prove the identity, as they did not want to pay the reward.

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          There was great complaint about the inefficiency of the city street inspector. A trap door in the sidewalk on John street, between King and King William, was in a dangerous condition, and the newspaper reporters had frequently called attention to it. The Spectator suggested that the inspector was not fit for his job, and asked : “Is the council afraid of him so that they dare not inquire into the numerous complaints preferred?” The street inspector must have been a man with a political pull.

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          The Hamilton Board of trade must have been a dead body in the long ago, for the Spectator says of it : “It is a happy thing for Hamilton that her prosperity does not depend upon her Board of Trade.” The subject under discussion was the building of the Huron and Ontario canal, which was to connect Hamilton with Goderich. The engineer had reported that the construction of the canal was feasible, and he recommended the expenditure of $400 for a special survey of the route. The Spectator said “that this canal is by no means so visionary a scheme as some of our down-east friends may imagine.” The probable route was from Hamilton to a point south of Woodstock, then south of London and running northwest to Lake Huron. It is needless to say that the canal never got farther than the plans in the engineer’s office. That was one of Hamilton’s opportunities that was only a dream.

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          There was the same poverty of finances forty-six years ago as there is now, and the board of works was the main sufferer. The council had bankrupted the treasury by expending $18,000 in leveling property in St. Mary’s ward, for the benefit of speculators, and which was not called for a city improvement just then. The suggestion was made in the council to tide over the shortage of funds by issuing debentures – just as the council now talks of doing. One of the councilors said that it was not right to put the money of the city into the pockets of speculators. Ald. Davidson charged Ald. Gray (The Dodger) with being crooked. They were gay old boys in the council of 1857.

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From the 1^st to the 9^th of May, 1857, 1,883 emigrants arrived in Hamilton from Germany, England, Ireland and Scotland, and of the number 1,482 moved to the United States while only 401 settled in Canada. A large proportion were agricultural laborers, a class much in demand at that time to settle on the free lands then being offered as an inducement to emigrants.

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          “The Ladies of Loretto,” a Roman Catholic religious society, had applied to parliament for a charter to establish in Hamilton an asylum for the orphans and destitute of their own creed. George Brown, the editor of the Toronto Globe, was a member of Parliament, and he led the Reform party in a factious opposition to the bill, styling the intended asylum as one of the “nunnery and monkery” class. The Spectator gave the Hon. George a dressing down for his illiberal views toward the Catholic church.

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          Hamilton was an ambitious city forty-six years ago. It aspired to be the seat of government for Canada. A committee was appointed to consider the question and an address forwarded to the colonial secretary setting forth the claims of this city, and requesting her majesty to refer the matter back to the Canadian government. And that was the last ever heard of it.

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          Hamilton made a start in the shipbuilding line, and a number of steamboats and sailing vessels were built by Whyte & Co. They had many obstacles to overcome, having to bring their ship carpenters from Quebec. The best quality of oak was grown in this immediate neighbourhood and was bought for $95 per thousand feet. The rigging hemp and the material for the sails were specially imported from Belfast, Ireland, and were made up by Mr. Grant. Bastien and Middlemiss were the ship carpenters in charge of the work. The Union, which was launched on the 14^th of May, 1857, was considered one of the finest vessel built in this city, and the owners refused an offer of $17,000 for her on the day she was launched. Capt. William Zealand was proud of his vessel. An offer was made to charter the Union for a trip to London, England, with a freight of black walnut lumber, but the price was so low that it would not pay unless the vessel could secure return freight from the city merchants. The Spectator of that day said : “We cannot but regret this, as the trip would have been worth to our city much more than the $1,200 extra which was asked, by way of an advertisement. If we had an active Board of Trade they might have secured return freight for the vessel.” The Union was later chartered for $2,000 to carry black walnut from Chatham to Quebec, and Hamilton lost the benefit of the advertisement.